


bled the flow

by bauer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Crying, Head Shaving, also of the nonsexual variety, as punishment, of the nonsexual variety, unless you decide otherwise the author is dead etc.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:57:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6846091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauer/pseuds/bauer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Wild Bill gets a bit too wild, the Blue Jackets take punishment into their own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bled the flow

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was brought to you by: my thing for blonds. Thought I might do something more with this, but I'm not, so here it is.
> 
> Title more or less from Kendrick Lamar's "Untitled 05."

They have William sitting in an old folding chair, the plastic of the seat beginning to peel. Union blue, of course. Next to a chair is a tray usually kept in medical room, stocked with scissors, hair clippers, and a cheap, disposable razor. Regular objects, ones that William uses or at least sees daily, but today they have him combing his fingers through his hair, fisting it, pulling at it (it reaches down to his clavicle now, he notes), heart thumping heavily in his chest.

The locker room is empty, besides William. He thinks, technically speaking, everyone is supposed to stay after the verdict is reached, but no one much wants to look at him after tonight. Except for the executioner, whoever that ends up being. 

He tries to imagine the possibilities: Foligno, wearing the same disappointed face as earlier; Alexander, going too quickly for it to be worth anything; Hartnell, who’s still a little too happy with something sharp in his hands after too many years in Philly.

William’s not sure where Cam falls on the spectrum, when he finally enters the room. He’s alone. Veteran enough to be trusted, William supposes. They make eye contact, but neither speak before Cam turns and runs his hands lightly over the supplies. He doesn’t seem much of anything to William, in that moment. Not angry, like earlier, but not normal enough to be unphased. He decides, then, to _try_.

“This is a fucking stupid punishment,” William says. Cam glances at him, unaffected. 

“It’s the one we voted on, as a team,” he replies evenly.

That is not the response William was hoping for. He’s feeling indignant, snarky, scared, when he replies, “Oh, yeah, thank god we’re in America, where—”

Cam slaps William once, hard, across the mouth. “Hey,” he says, digging his fingers into William’s jaw and pulling his head back into position. “Don’t play stupid on why this is happening and why you don’t want it to be. Vanity isn’t a cute look in the NHL. Get over yourself."

William is dazed for a second, and then anger bubbles low in his gut. Like Cam, with his curls and full mouth and white teeth, has any right to call William _vain_. But William bites back on it, grinds his molars together, knowing that nothing good would come from talking back. Cam must still feel the muscle and bone working beneath his fingers, and he shakes William’s head a few times, like he’s a misbehaving puppy. _“Hey,”_ he says again, a warning and a reprimand.

William shifts his gaze from somewhere behind Cam to meet his stare. He tries to wipe his face clean, free of any defiance or resentment. It doesn’t work, clearly, once Cam’s lips curl in anger and _frustration_ , the first real emotions he’s shown.

“You know what? Get on your knees. Get on your _fucking_ knees,” Cam forces out, yanking on the collar of William’s shirt. William’s stumbles, landing hard, fear curling in his stomach. “You’ve been here for how long and you still can’t deal with basic discipline?”

Everything’s moving fast now. The scissors, long, silver, and gleaming, are already in Cam’s hand, while the fingers on the other section off a portion of William’s hair. He can tell from the pinch that Cam’s holding it close to his head. 

“Cam—,” William starts, frantic even as the walls close in, as the certainty of this event settles in. It’s worse on the floor, more humiliating, more obviously not a trip to the barber’s, since he doesn’t dare look past Cam’s belly button.

“Don’t talk,” Cam interrupts. “Just… do _not_ talk right now.” And then there’s a distinctive _snick_ right by William’s ear. He jerks away automatically, but it doesn’t matter, since Cam doesn't have a hold on him anymore. William can’t help but look up at Cam’s hand then, and watch as the blond piece of hair, _his_ hair, falls to the floor.

Oh, Jesus. Oh, Christ. Every profane thing he could think of. He’s almost in shock as Cam maneuvers his head back in position, as the distinctive pull and release keeps repeating itself.

William has given everything to hockey. Uncountable hours, _years_ . Immeasurable pain. A home in Sweden. Family, friends. All second to hockey, his passion, his dream of playing in the NHL. And now it won't even let him he can’t even keep his hair. His _hair,_  the one thing William thought he could control and cherish, that’s being thrown onto his locker room floor in thick chunks like it's nothing but trash.

He can’t stop shaking his head every time Cam lets go, and each time there’s less hair brushing his shoulders, ears, the nape of his neck. The last piece Cam cuts off dangles in front of William’s right eye. It falls away when Cam rubs over what’s left of William’s hair.

Cam puts down the scissors. Picks up the hair clipper. After considering for a moment, Cam pops off the bright red length guard before thumbing the switch on.

The incessant buzzing of the clippers, combined with the frustration and loathing and dread, is what pushes the pressure behind his eyes over the edge. He can feel the fat tears rolling down his cheeks, but he refuses to wipe them away, like that would make them more real. Cam doesn’t comment as he shaves a long stripe down the middle of William’s head.

William’s still in disbelief, somehow, or maybe just numb, as the clippers shear off the last of any noteworthy length, falling away in tiny bundles. He stays that way until Cam brings out the shaving cream, squirting it out and lathering it on William’s head, and starts running the disposable razor across his head. It’s a familiar enough sensation, from the somewhat rare occasion of him needing to shave. It also reminds him of sitting in the bathroom with past girlfriends as they shaved their legs, how smooth they were afterward…

At that, William breaks.

“Ow, ow, _ow,_ Cam, ow,” William sobs, trying to lean away. Cam doesn’t let him, of course, and uses one foamy hand to wrap around his neck.

“ _Stay still._ Did you know they used to use a straight edge? I promise you, it wasn’t something they only let someone with steady hands do. Imagine how that worked out,” Cam says, hard, distant. “I don't plan on cutting you right now. This will only hurt if you keep moving. It's up to you.”

It doesn’t make William stop crying, but he stops moving, except for the uncontrollable shaking of his shoulders. Other than William’s harsh breathing, neither of them say anything, either, until Cam’s wiping the remnants of the shaving cream off of William’s head and neck.

“You’re going to have to stop crying eventually,” Cam says, with the same tone he’d say _Johnson always gives up rebounds._ “Do you think this — ” he gestures around them, the locker room, William kneeling in a pile of his own hair, the distant echo of someone lingering in the showers, “Gets any easier once you’re out of your ELC? It doesn’t. It really doesn’t. You can hate me, Fliggy, Torts, management, whoever, as much as you want, but it isn’t going to change anything. As long as you’re playing in the NHL — _anywhere_ in the NHL, not just here — they’re going to take from you. Way more than you can even imagine. It’s time you got used to that.”

**Author's Note:**

> [The NSFW tumblr, as usual.](http://ratbarnaby.tumblr.com)


End file.
